


Say You Want Me

by katherine1753



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell (TV), Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Angry Kissing, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Locked In, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-14
Updated: 2020-11-14
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:07:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27565735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katherine1753/pseuds/katherine1753
Summary: Childermass and Lascelles get locked in a bookshop, whatever could go wrong?
Relationships: John Childermass/Henry Lascelles
Comments: 3
Kudos: 4





	Say You Want Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [touchmytardis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/touchmytardis/gifts).



> A very happy birthday to fol-de-lol! I hope you like this little fic :)

Being in the service of Gilbert Norrell for many years, John Childermass was rather used to his master’s odd whims and requests, and had become accustomed to fulfilling Norrell’s needs at all hours of the day or night. He had been sent out for tasks at strange hours, ranging from things as simple as purchasing new parchments or candles, to things more complicated such as threatening certain aspiring headmasters from opening a school of magic. On this particular evening, Norrell had been in the middle of working on a very important chapter of the book he was writing (and, as Norrell often did, had gotten absorbed in his work and paid little attention to the time of day), and had suddenly thought about a few books that he so very desperately needed at this late hour of the evening. He had wanted to compare something he had heard was written about in a Welsh Magic Book to something he had read in Pevensey, but of course he did not have any Welsh Books of Magic, for all of his books were very much English. Childermass, ever helpful and loyal to his master in all endeavors, had mentioned that he had seen some books written in Welsh at the little bookshop a number of streets over where Norrell had been sending him to check for other Books of Magic, and he thought that a few of them looked, at first glance, like they might be the kind of books that Norrell was looking for. Norrell had asked him to go there immediately, thrusting a bag of coins into his hand and shooing him out, saying that he could not continue writing his chapter until he had those books. 

For some reason, Mr. Henry Lascelles was still hanging around that late at night, much to Childermass’s chagrin. The man was at Hanover Square more often than he was not nowadays, and he frustrated Childermass quite a bit. But Norrell had been so immersed in his writing, and Childermass was a little surprised that Lascelles was still at the house without Norrell paying him any attention for the better part of the evening. And, for some other reason, Lascelles had insisted on accompanying Childermass to the bookshop. He said something about wanting to verify the usefulness of the books in relation to Norrell’s manuscript, but Childermass doubted very much that Lascelles would be of any use at all. The nasty look that Lascelles sent his way spoke much more of his true intentions: that he did not trust Childermass to do his job. It seemed the man always wanted to catch him doing something wrong. But Childermass had done his job very successfully for many years before Lascelles and he would continue to do so for many years after Lascelles was gone. Though it irked him so, he would not stoop to his level to comment; it would only make Lascelles all the more infuriating. Norrell, unaware of the tension as always, had nodded, waving his hand at them to go, and asked that they hurry back. 

John hadn’t wanted to argue in front of Mr. Norrell, and, unfortunately, it was not his place to tell Mr. Lascelles what to do (though one could dream), and so he’d settled for rolling his eyes as he strode out of the house, barely waiting for Lascelles to follow him. 

Originally Childermass assumed that Lascelles had perhaps come along to chaperone, as he did not trust Childermass at all for some reason, though John had never done anything to earn this attitude. But as they walked to the bookshop, Lascelles hurrying to keep up with Childermass’s long strides, it seemed that perhaps he had come along just to complain and be a general thorn in Childermass’s side, for complaining was all he had done from the moment that they departed Hanover Square. First he was angry that they were walking to the bookshop instead of taking a carriage, despite the fact that it was a short enough walk and getting the carriage ready this late at night would be a bigger hassle than it was worth. Then, his complaint was that he was too cold, followed by a complaint that his feet hurt from walking so upon the hard cobbled pavement, and then another complaint that it was rather dark outside. He complained multiple times that Childermass walked too quickly. Each of these complaints was met with Childermass’s customary silence and a roll of his eyes that Lascelles could not see from his spot a few paces behind as he tried to keep up. And every time Lascelles complained about the speed of his walking, he would increase his stride just enough to make it all the more annoying to him. The small pleasures were what kept Childermass sane in the presence of someone so annoying as Henry Lascelles. 

Childermass turned down a dark and twisting alleyway, his usual shortcut to the bookshop, when Lascelles put up even more of a protest, demanding him stop and come back into the slightly less dim and dreary street where the lamps had been lit. John had sighed, grumbling to himself as he walked back to the fussy man ordering him about. He wanted to point out that it was a much shorter walk, but as he was very much put upon and annoyed by this whole situation, he decided to let Lascelles have his way. If the man’s feet hurt even more from the extra walking, that was his own fault for not listening to Childermass. If he had to walk longer in the dark and the cold, that was his own doing. 

Childermass quickened his pace a final time as he knew it had to be approaching the hour of closing for the shop, though he hadn’t checked the time as they left Hanover Square because Norrell had sent them out with such haste.

When they finally entered the bookshop, thankfully still open, the bookseller informed them that he was closing the shop at precisely eight o’clock so to please be quick if they wanted to make any purchases, but he was more than happy to hold books for them until the morning if they wanted to spend more time looking around. Childermass had nodded at him and set off into the tightly packed rows of shelves, looking for Norrell’s requested books. 

Lascelles followed him around like a bothersome child, sighing dramatically and tapping his foot impatiently when Childermass would pause at a shelf. This continued on for some time, and every little sigh and tap was grating on John’s nerves in the worst way. 

“Is there a problem?” Childermass said after a while, getting rather tired of this. Truthfully, he was always tired of Henry Lascelles, but now he had a bit more room to voice his opinions about it. 

“Why does Norrell even want these Welsh books? English Magic is the best magic there is, I’m sure Welsh Magic is very primitive, probably all...elemental and things. It probably isn’t very good at all,” Lascelles complained. 

“Oh, and are you an expert on Welsh Magic, Mr. Lascelles? I hadn’t realized,” Childermass asked sarcastically, running his fingers over a very old book with most of the title worn off, trying to see if it was one of the ones he needed. 

Lascelles frowned for a moment, his obnoxiously dainty little face creasing in the dim candlelight of the shop. “Can Norrell even read Welsh?” he asked doubtfully. 

“No,” Childermass replied with a sigh. “But I can.”

“You?” Lascelles asked, a bit of surprise seeping into his tone. “Of course you probably would...But- But you could be lying to him. Or giving him the wrong translations!” 

Childermass didn’t like his accusatory tone. “And why would I do that?”

“Because you- for so many reasons!” Lascelles sputtered. He so desperately wanted Childermass to mess up somewhere, but he would not be so lucky. 

“Such as?” Childermass asked icily; he knew they had to be running out of time and of course Lascelles wouldn’t dare lower himself to help at all. No, he just had to waste their time, especially when Childermass would be to blame for coming back empty-handed. John let his eyes move faster over the rows of books, willing the Welsh titles to stand out. 

“You could be wanting to take his place. You could be wanting to blackmail him, or harm him in some way! I know some of your background, I don’t trust you one bit and neither should he!” Lascelles listed testily. 

Childermass just scoffed. Ridiculous. He obviously didn’t know anything about him, especially nothing of his time spent in Mr. Norrell’s service. 

“I don’t know what you want from Mr. Norrell. You’re such an ungrateful servant, always speaking out of turn and showing up when you’re unwanted, being insolent and petulant and rude to his guests,” Lascelles finished his rant.

“And what do  _ you  _ want from Mr. Norrell?” Childermass rounded on him. He would not argue with any of Lascelles’s points, it would be like arguing with a brick wall: pointless and a waste of time. But Childermass was rather protective of Mr. Norrell, and he didn’t trust Lascelles just as much as Lascelles didn’t trust him in return. 

“ _ I _ only want the best for him!” Lascelles said, offended. “If he succeeds, then we all succeed,” he sniffed, crossing his arms and turning his nose up at Childermass. It sounded like a fake excuse, just some drivel or nonsense he told himself to feel better about his true intentions. 

Childermass just rolled his eyes. He didn’t feel that anything Lascelles said deemed a response. It was not worth his time,  _ Lascelles _ was not worth his time, he had much more important things to do. Such as finding those books Norrell had sent them for in the first place, because surely they were running out of time.

“How do we even find what he’s looking for, this bookshop is so cluttered and disorganized,” Lascelles complained again when he didn’t get a response that he wanted out of Childermass. 

“Can you read Welsh, Mr. Lascelles?” Childermass asked.

“Of course not,” Lascelles said, like he was deeply offended by the thought of it. Of course he thought himself so much better than that. 

“Then look for the books that you cannot read,” Childermass smirked and turned down the next aisle. He probably should not be taking such satisfaction in teasing one of Norrell’s friends, but Lascelles truly deserved it. He left him outraged in the aisle, hoping maybe he would make himself useful for once in his life. In their arguing, neither of them had noticed the clock tower bells ringing outside. 

After a while of wandering, Childermass was able to find three of the five books he had mentioned. He only had to listen for sounds of discomfort and annoyance to find Lascelles, halfway across the store and upset that he’d gotten some dust on his fancy little coat. 

“Find anything?” Childermass asked, noticing that Lascelles did have one book in his hands. 

“I…” for a moment he almost looked like he was going to be pleasant. “I might have found one...” he said suspiciously. 

But he did not hand the book over or hold it up so Childermass could see the title. John frowned. “Well, can I see it?”

“No! I found this one!” Lascelles held it further away, even going so far as to take a step back away from Childermass. He was like a petulant child, completely and utterly ridiculous. 

“Alright,” Childermass said slowly. “Do you even know if it’s Welsh? Or the right book?” He could see Lascelles hesitating. “Are you planning on paying for it, then?”

Lascelles frowned at him, almost a pout, and handed the book over with an angry sigh. It was, somehow, one of the books they needed. And thankfully there was just one more to find, and then they could go back to Hanover Square and Childermass would hopefully be able to retire to bed and get away from Lascelles. Dealing with the man was draining. 

They resumed their search in silence, which Childermass was pleased for, and eventually John found the last book tucked in the back corner of the shop. He leaned into Lascelles’s aisle, catching his attention, and nodded toward the front. He would be rid of him soon. 

“Oh thank god, I was getting so tired of wandering around this horrid little shop,” Lascelles complained, straightening his little jacket again and following along. Childermass thought coats like that were entirely pointless, just a pretty wrapping and not useful at all. But it did draw attention to Lascelles’s eyes, which could have been pretty if they weren’t always glaring at Childermass. 

John didn’t like the direction his thoughts were turning. So instead, just rolled his eyes, taking a bit of offense on behalf of the bookshop. He walked up to the counter with the heavy books in his arms and waited for the shopkeeper to come up after he rang the bell. 

They were met with silence.

After a few minutes with no one, and no sign of anyone coming to take his money, Childermass rang the bell again with a frown on his face. He drummed his fingers on the counter for a moment. “Sir?” he called out. This was rather unusual behavior for the shopkeeper, he was always very prompt when Childermass came into his shop, probably because Norrell always had him purchase multiple books every time he had been sent there. 

Lascelles gave his own eyes a roll and looked at his pocket watch impatiently, tapping his foot. And then he gasped. “Childermass, it’s very nearly nine!”

“What-” Childermass started, leaning over to see Lascelles’s gleaming pocket watch. There was no way they had been there that long, had they? Looking at the watch face, he saw that it was true. Assuming that Lascelles had wound his watch correctly. Or, more likely, that he’d had one of his servants do it. But no, they had stayed nearly an hour past closing time in the search for the books. Childermass was a bit ashamed they had spent so much time arguing, but all of that had been Lascelles’s fault. Childermass had spent the entire time looking for the books, and yet if they had to leave without them he would be blamed for it and he could just see Lascelles’s perfectly annoyingly gleeful grin at Norrell’s disappointment. This was unacceptable. 

Childermass turned to the shop door and tried to open it. This was entirely unacceptable. 

“And you’re just going to walk out with the books then? You’re going to steal them?” Lascelles asked, outraged. “I knew you were a thief!” 

Childermass rolled his eyes again and didn’t answer the accusations. He had worse problems at the moment. Much worse. “We’re locked in,” he announced finally, after pulling at the doorknob. 

“We’re  _ what?” _ Lascelles gasped, starting to get rather worked up. He rushed to the door and tried to open it himself, which Childermass thought was rather stupid since he had literally just attempted it himself. Of course Lascelles wouldn’t trust him to even open a door. “No. No, no, no, we can’t be locked in. I can’t stay here! Especially not with you!” 

Childermass frowned. “I don’t particularly fancy being stuck with you either,” he grumbled. “But I’m probably one of the only people who could get you out of a locked building; it’s not like any of your horrible little friends would be of any use in a situation like this.” He set the books down on the counter and returned to kneel by the door, rummaging through his pockets and ignoring Lascelles’s protests to his words. 

He pulled out a roll of string, his stack of trusty cards, some leaves, a snack for Brewer-

“What are you doing?” Lascelles interrupted. 

“Fixing this,” Childermass grumbled. “Or trying to.”

He finally found what he was looking for, a series of little metal sticks, and began to try to pick the lock. He’d be damned if he had to spend another minute longer stuck with Henry Lascelles than he had to. If he had to break a window to get them out of there, he would, and he would apologize profusely to the bookkeeper the next day. 

“You have tools to pick locks just on your person?” Lascelles gasped like he was scandalized. The man was so dramatic. Childermass hated it. “I knew you were probably a criminal but this is so much worse! Where else have you been sneaking around? Have you been stealing from Norrell? I bet you have. I can’t believe this. Does Norrell know about this? Surely not. I will inform him immediately when we get out of here. Your days are numbered, Childermass!”

“Shut up, Lascelles,” he mumbled around one of the metal picks he held between his teeth until he needed it next, trying to focus on the lock. He was usually very good at picking locks, but with Lascelles’s indignant tones loud in the background he was finding it rather hard to focus. 

“Oh! Oh, how  _ dare  _ you address me in such a way! Don’t forget, Childermass, I’m your superior! I am much higher than you, whether or not I’m your master.” Every word was like an ice pick in his skull. Childermass wanted to snap that he’d never answer to a master like Lascelles. He wanted to say  _ many  _ things. “You’re just a servant, you can’t talk to me that way, with all your dirty layers and criminal tools and horrid expressions and-” 

“Lascelles. Shut. Up.” Childermass stood, his metal sticks abandoned in the door. He brushed back a lock of hair that had come loose from its ties. “My god, you’re infuriating. I won’t be able to get us out of here unless you shut up,” he said darkly. It was a tone he used often when he had to get his way with a particularly difficult person. Usually to get something that Norrell needed. 

There was a momentary pause. Lascelles’s gaze swept over him and he licked his lips, a subconscious movement, surely, but Childermass could not look away. “Why don’t you make me,” Lascelles said, a challenge in his eyes. 

They were standing dangerously close, Childermass was very nearly looming over him. “Make you?” he repeated, almost incredulous, but Lascelles’s eyes were darkening in a way he had not seen before. “I could, you know,” he said, letting his voice deepen while taking a step closer. Lascelles shuffled a half step back; he was nearly backed in against a shelf. 

“Do it,” Lascelles said, glancing up at him with fire in his eyes. “I dare you.” 

“Oh,” Childermass breathed, a smirk forming on his face. He took another step forward and Lascelles was cornered against the shelf. “You want this,” he realized. It certainly wasn’t as if Childermass had never thought of it before either. He often wondered if he could fuck the smug look off of his face or what else those disdainful lips might do. 

“I- I do not! I-” Lascelles swallowed. His cheeks were burning, his eyes kept glancing away, but Childermass could sense it was a lie. He was always very good at reading people. It was clear now that Lascelles had been harboring some of the same scandalous thoughts towards him. If they could both finally act on it, well, it could be a nice release of  _ tension  _ for them both. 

“I think you do,” Childermass leaned forward, pressing close. He could feel Lascelles growing hard against him and all of his suspicions were confirmed. “I really  _ feel  _ that you do,” he smirked. “Admit it.”

“I will do no such thing!” Lascelles protested, but his voice was losing its normal venom. “Just. Just do it already.”

“I will do no such thing,” Childermass repeated. “Until you admit that you want me.” He let his hips grind forward, once, twice, just a moment of wonderful friction while watching Lascelles’s eyelids flutter closed in pleasure. Lascelles tried to tilt his hips into it and that was when Childermass stopped. “Admit it,” he whispered against Lascelles’s ear, feeling him shiver against him. “Or I’ll stop.” 

“F-fine!” Lascelles spat out. “I want you! I just-” and Childermass cut him off with a rough kiss, finally shutting him up in a way he had only imagined. He hadn’t expected him to give in so quickly with the way the two of them argued so often, but it just added to the proof of how desperate Lascelles was for him, how desperate they both were for this. Though Lascelles’s lips were soft, his kisses were anything but. Hot and wet and  _ sharp _ , Childermass realized, as Lascelles’s teeth scraped across his lip hard enough to nearly draw blood. Teeth and tongues and lips, all battling and nipping and stroking angrily and furiously against each other. He caught Lascelles’s lower lip in his teeth and gave it a little bite, revenge, relishing in the sound he drew out of him. 

Lascelles’s hands were fisted in his hair, pulling just on the shy side of pain. His hips were rocking against John’s own, and a particularly needy thrust drew Childermass’s attention from where he was kissing Lascelles nearly through the bookshelf. Letting go of the shelf that he was crowding Lascelles into, he put one hand on his hip to hold him still, and let the other sink into Lascelles’s unfairly soft hair to tilt his head to the side so that Childermass could suck a bruise into his neck just above his many layers of collars. 

It won him another delicious noise, but of course as soon as Lascelles’s lips were unoccupied, he began to talk again. “If-if you tell anyone about this, I swear I’ll-  _ oh, _ ” he tried to threaten. 

“You’ll what? Who would I want to tell about this?” Childermass asked against his neck, letting his teeth drag over Lascelles’s soft skin. 

“It would ruin me,” Lascelles panted, nearly too distracted by Childermass’s lips to form sentences. John would have to work on that. 

“I’m going to ruin you right now,” Childermass promised darkly, pressing his hips forward again. Lascelles had been patient long enough, he decided. It was the most patience he’d ever seen from him, after all. 

“Please,” Lascelles breathed. And Childermass hadn’t even had to tell him to beg. He was so much more agreeable like this; maybe Childermass needed to fuck some niceness into him more often. 

“Oh? What was that?” Childermass teased, pulling his hair a bit to tilt his neck further to work on another bite, and another, nipping at his earlobe as he muttered into his ear. “Are you begging, Lascelles?” 

“Shut up,” Lascelles said, but the heat behind it was a mix of anger and arousal, his hips still trying to take control of the situation. 

“Why don’t you make me,” Childermass teased, repeating his words from earlier, as he pulled back just enough to make Lascelles do something about it. 

Lascelles grabbed him by the lapels and pulled him back into a biting kiss. He thrust his hips up into Childermass’s, desperately trying to get more friction. Childermass took a bit of pity on him and started to grind against him again, pressing hard and circling his hips just slow enough to draw another desperate moan out of Lascelles. He would enjoy this. Oh, he would enjoy this immensely. He was sure both of their lips would be bruised, but he continued to kiss and nip at his mouth as he felt Lascelles’s fingers tugging uselessly at his layers of clothes. Childermass relinquished his grip on Lascelles’s hips to move to the buttons of both of their breeches. Lascelles gasped as Childermass gripped him through the layers of fabric before working his hand inside and drawing him out, rucking up the bottoms of their shirts and any other fabric that would get in the way. He then pulled his own cock out, not quite holding back his groan as they brushed together. 

Childermass took them both in hand, and noticed Lascelles was only barely holding himself up against the shelf, eyes fluttering with every movement, little sounds escaping his parted lips. He pressed forward impossibly closer, pinning him securely in place as he began to move his hand. Lascelles’s cock was hot against his own, twitching and leaking in his grip and slicking the way for Childermass’s hand. He knew his hand was callused and rough from riding, but it seemed only to turn Lascelles on even more. 

“I- I hate you so much,” Lascelles said. “But...but- ah,” he gasped again as Childermass rubbed his hand over the head of their pricks. 

“I know,” Childermass said. “But this is good, isn’t it? You like this. You like my hand on you. My filthy, servant’s hand. You like my lips on yours, taking those hateful words right out of your mouth. I can touch you in ways no one else ever could, none of your little dandy friends could ever have you like this,” Childermass kept murmuring filth in his ear, taking pride in the way it made Lascelles moan and his eyelashes flutter shut again with every word. 

A few more thrusts of his hips, a twist of his hand, and another bite to Lascelles’s neck and he felt him spill into his hand. Childermass followed him over the edge a moment later, face tucked into Lascelles’s neck to muffle his moan. 

He stepped back when he regained his breath, and for a moment considered wiping his hand on Lascelles’s coat, but he didn’t want to push his luck. He raised his hand up to lick it clean, and Lascelles was still panting, eyes dark and glazed over. A tiny, needy whine escaped him, surely without him realizing, and Childermass smirked at it. 

John tucked himself away, straightening his clothes easily to their previously rumpled state. Lascelles struggled a bit more, fussing with his buttons and trying to smooth out some creases that would need more than just his hands pressing them flat. He was flushed and disheveled, hands shaking a bit and breathing fast, and damn it all he was pretty. 

Childermass wanted to have him again sometime. Maybe in a bed, maybe against another set of shelves, he wasn’t picky. But he sure as hell didn’t want to ask for it. He would rather make Lascelles come to him, make him angry enough that he was begging for it again. “Hmm.” Childermass grunted, mostly to himself. 

“What,” Lascelles tried to snap, but it seemed Childermass had fucked all the bitterness out of him. He’d definitely have to do this again. 

“You’re a decent fuck, Lascelles,” Childermass smirked again as he turned back to work on the door.

“You- I- How-how  _ dare  _ you, I-” he spluttered.

“Did you not enjoy it? Come, now, Lascelles, I can very much tell that you did,” he drawled, sparing a smug glance over his shoulder as he picked at the lock. 

“...fine,” Lascelles admitted quietly, nearly seething but too soft to have as much of a bite as he intended. “Alright. Fine.”

Childermass paused, a bit shocked that it came so easily again, at least easily in terms of Henry Lascelles. “I can think of a few good uses for that mouth of yours, especially since I know you beg so prettily,” he teased. He couldn’t help himself. Lascelles made another outraged sound, but Childermass didn’t care. He made one final twist with his lock picks and the door clicked open. 

“You- you did it? You got us out?” Lascelles was hovering over his shoulder, looking at the door like he couldn’t quite believe it. 

“I told you I could.”

“Oh. I.” he swallowed. “Right.”

“Is that supposed to be a thank you?”

Lascelles glared, but it wasn’t quite as harsh as normal. Not that his glares were ever frightening to a man such as Childermass, but it was still an improvement. 

Childermass turned to gather the books off of the counter and set the coins down by the shopkeeper’s log book, making a quick note of their purchases. “See? Not stealing.”

“Oh,” Lascelles said again. 

He held the door open and Lascelles stepped out. Childermass locked the door behind them again with his lock picks. Lascelles was quiet on the way back, seemingly lost in his thoughts. He was so deep in them that he followed Childermass through his shortcuts, down dark alleyways and all. 

When they arrived back at Hanover Square, it seemed Mr. Norrell had gotten rather impatient and already went to bed. He’d be glad to have the books in the morning, though. Childermass put them on his desk where he would see them first thing and walked back to the entryway where Lascelles was still lingering. 

“I suppose I’ll come back to discuss those with Mr. Norrell tomorrow,” Lascelles said after a moment. 

“Mmm,” Childermass hummed in slight acquiescence. He tipped his head in goodbye and began to walk to his rooms, his duties done for the night, and Lascelles had always seen himself out (or, perhaps was walked out by another servant. But Childermass had never and would never do it).

“Childermass?” Lascelles called. There was a tone in his voice that Childermass hadn’t heard before. It was free of condescension; it was almost nervous. He paused, turned his head just enough to glance over his shoulder. 

“What you said earlier, did you mean it?”

“I said a few things, you’ll have to be specific,”

“That we might...again?”

He thought for a moment, mostly to make Lascelles anxious, a half-smile playing about his lips, and gave a single nod before disappearing down the hallway into the shadows. Before he left, he noticed one side of Lascelles’s mouth had quirked up into a half-smile of his own. 


End file.
